Farewell to the Fairground
by Another Winter
Summary: It must have been nice to see everything through a lens of naivety that warped even the world's greatest serial killer into some kind of joke.


**Author's Note: Hello, everyone. It's good to be back after so long. I know I have been rambling about this idea forever, but I finally found a way to make it work (hopefully). I did something I'm not very comfortable with here, which is taking an exact moment from the anime and embellishing it. I know many people frown upon such writing, but I ask that you at least give my story a chance. I am of the firm opinion that, even though he's an idiot, Matsuda is much more than comic relief. Maybe this story will help others reach that conclusion too. Or maybe it'll dig Matsuda further into a hole of disrespect. Either way, I'm just happy to have something new to post, even if it is super short. Thank you all for stopping by!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Death Note" or any of the characters used in this story. The title of this fic is borrowed from a song by the band, White Lies. I don't really know much about said band, but I do like that one song and felt its title was appropriate. **

Up until today, Aizawa had wished for an admission ticket to the theme park hall of mirrors through which Matsuda viewed the world. It must have been nice to see everything through a lens of naivety that warped even the world's greatest serial killer into some kind of joke. With each comment about pop culture, and each innocent declaration of justice, Aizawa's scorn for the inferior detective grew, as did his desire to see Matsuda's funhouse burnt to the ground.

But never had Aizawa expected the destruction to look like this...

Matsuda knelt on the ground, still as a wax figure, but missing the tranquility of marble eyes. He wept openly and watched the twisted figure of Light Yagami as it confessed to sins Matsuda had observed previously only through his rosy filter.

Aizawa could almost see the mirrors shattering.

When Light attempted scrap paper murder right before them, Matsuda rose to his feet with an uncharacteristic speed and sense of purpose. He fired a perfect pistol shot into the prodigy's hand, thwarting the murder plot and spilling ribbons of blood.

Aizawa would not have been impressed with the accurate use of the weapon had it occurred in a different context. He had seen Matsuda practicing at the range countless times, after all, and it was common knowledge that the young man knew his way around a gun. But even that formidable marksmanship was discredited by the stupid face Matsuda would make as he bragged about a bullseye. Now Aizawa longed for that goofy grin. He longed for the dimwitted labrador eyes and cocky laugh. Because the expression Matsuda presently wore was simply and plainly more upsetting than Kira's identity.

There was a hatred and sense of betrayal in the man's eyes that could have severed Light's veins had the bullet not already done so. The acidic tears trickling down Matsuda's face were more than a display of emotion, or a physiological function of the eye; they were shattered remnants of the optimism and hope the man had relied upon to refract his light for so many years.

And now that Light had so easily refracted himself, flipping one-hundred-eighty degrees and shedding his pretense, Matsuda saw fit to...

No, Matsuda didn't see anything, Aizawa realized. He was not the albino genius in the other corner, or even the generally rational officers that made up the rest of the task force. Such reasoning was beyond him. Matsuda saw nothing now that his mirrors were broken. He only felt. He felt the pain of a dog kicked by its master, or a schoolgirl slapped by her best friend. And there was no point of reference to ground him.

The young officer barked at Light Yagami and brandished his pistol like the lethal weapon it truly was. With trembling hands, he questioned his former friend about the death of Soichiro Yagami, perhaps searching for one last shred of hope in the student who had revealed himself to be the most hopeless being on the planet.

When Light responded with a desperate, self-righteous statement that distanced himself from his father's memory, the killer unknowingly lost his last bit of protection.

The lamps in the funhouse swung from the rafters and discarded their luminescence; the organ grinder ceased to belt a merry tune; and the last of the mirrors exploded in a rain of razor bullets that tore Light apart as he tried to write again.

In that moment, Aizawa heard the sum of what Matsuda had tethered in the carnival basement with his childish sensibilities and blind faith in humanity.

"I'm going to kill you! We have to kill him!"

The amateur charged forward, and it only took an eyeblink for Aizawa to realize that Matsuda meant every one of his words.

As if they had all experienced the same epiphany at once, Aizawa and the rest of the task force sprang forward to pull Matsuda off the killer. They disrupted what would have been the final shot, leaving a smoking crater in the warehouse floor, and a gasping associate in their arms.

They helped the fractured man to the ground where he knelt, in almost the same position as before, and watched Light writhe on the floor like a wounded animal.

Aizawa took in the gory overload around him and, in a brief moment of stillness, he felt the weight of his own gun still securely holstered at his hip.

When Mikami created a self-injurious distraction that allowed Light to stagger from the warehouse in one last stride at escape, Matsuda was the first to notice. The cold, little albino assured them that the game was over, that Light's wounds would kill him in a short time, but the policemen had a tie to Light that Near did not, and they pursued the son of their deceased leader out into the waning sun.

As they followed the trail of blood, the detectives were reluctant to say anything. What words could possibly follow in the wake of what had just happened? This would have been the perfect time for an update on Misa-Misa's record sales, or the newest program to be featured in Sakura TV's winter line-up, but Matsuda did not offer the kind of air-headed tension breaker that had subtly kept them afloat all this time. He only ran forward, his heavy breathing somehow less audible than the others'.

The policemen stopped for a moment to puzzle the direction in which Light had run, and it was decided that they needed to split up. Aizawa offered to accompany Matsuda.

"Are you okay?" the older detective asked as they dashed by decrepit warehouses and cylinders of oil.

Matsuda glanced at his companion and Aizawa almost cringed at the empty maturity staining the young man's face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Matsuda said. "Just a little shook up."

Aizawa averted his eyes and stepped over a discarded soda can, the contents of which were only partially spilled. Matsuda trampled right over the half-empty aluminum and looked straight ahead, not caring that his shoes now smelled sweet and stuck to the ground.

"It's okay, you know, to be upset about all this."

"I know."

"We don't blame you that it turned out this way."

"I know."

The men stopped outside a warehouse with an open door and saw a fresh puddle of blood decorating its entrance.

"You okay to go in?"

"Yeah."

Aizawa knew in that moment that Matsuda would never be the same. What usually took one years of failed relationships, unjust employment terminations, and deaths in the family to realize had come crashing down on the young man in less than an hour.

"How do you think Misa-Misa's doing?" Aizawa asked with a false smile, attempting to coax out of Matsuda any sliver of joy he might have had left.

"I really don't care about Misa Amane right now, Aizawa," the man sighed. "Let's just get this over with."

They entered the warehouse, closing the door behind them to remove the possibility of any unnecessary civilian witnesses, and Aizawa grimaced at the sound of the metal seal.

The funhouse had closed its doors for the final time. Nevermore would people look into its giddy mirrors for a brighter version of themselves; nevermore would spectrum stringlights illuminate otherwise dark chambers; and nevermore would optimism have a place at the fairgrounds.

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! If you have any comments or suggestions, please leave a review!**


End file.
